Responsibility
by PapayaK
Summary: Sam has 'survivor's guilt' Just a bit of S/J


Title: Responsibility

Author: PapayaK

Category: angst

Spoilers: none

Summary: Sam has 'survivor's guilt'

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Just having fun He stood in front of her house.

oO0Oo  
**RESPONSIBILITY**  
oO0Oo

He stood in front of her house.

He was still. Thinking. He shouldn't be here. He, of all people, shouldn't be here. But Daniel, who was SO much better at this than he, was off world. Because of a quirk in the planet's revolution around its sun, they could only gate back every five days. He wouldn't be back for three more.

Teal'c, who had been by to see her yesterday, was the cause of this fool's errand:

"I believe you should speak to MajorCarter."

"Yeah? What am I gonna say that she hasn't already heard?"

Teal'c gazed at him.

"She'll be fine," he said with a lot more confidence than he felt. And he had gotten up at that point and brushed past his friend on the way out the door.

So now he was here with no idea what to say.

With a deep sigh, he walked up to the door and rang the bell.

After a moment, she opened it, "Sir." She sounded a bit surprised, but mostly uninterested.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course." She stood back to let him pass, closed the door behind him and followed him into the living room.

He paused, and when she said nothing he plopped down on the couch. "Sit," he ordered.

She complied. She looked like she hadn't slept since she got away from Janet two days ago.

"How're you feeling?" he asked and then kicked himself, "How's the wound?" he clarified.

"Fine."

Well, she had learned cryptic from the best. What did he expect? He almost smiled as he thought about the 'conversation' he imagined taking place yesterday between her and Teal'c. Almost.

There was nothing to smile about. His 2IC had been loaned to another SG team for a purely scientific mission. Things had gone completely, horrifically wrong and she had returned alone and wounded: the only survivor.

A hundred platitudes raced across his mind. Each one more lame than the last. The fact of it was: 'survivor's guilt' was an unbearable load. One he had born far too many times.

He glanced up and was surprised to see her watching him. As if she had been reading his thoughts, she asked, "How do you bear it? How do you go on?"

A thousand more worthless platitudes flashed before his eyes.

He looked down, brushed an invisible smear off his boot, straightened a lace… "I don't," he said to the floor.

She waited, watching him.

He loosely folded his hands, draping them between his knees. Somehow it was easier to talk to the floor, than those despondent blue eyes. "I'm a coward." He confessed, "I… I put it away-"

"How?" she interrupted, her words laced with too much desperation.

"Practice," he responded with a grimace. He really hoped she didn't get any more practice. "I don't want you to have any more practice at this," he told her.

They're quiet for a moment.

She got up and walked to the window – looking out but seeing nothing. "I left them behind," she whispered.

He closed his eyes. His head drooped. He knows what this is. And it hurts.

He stood slowly, and moved across the room to her. A part of his brain reminding him to be careful – don't show too much care – don't touch her…

He merely stood close enough for her to feel him, not touching her at all. "They left first," he reminded her, knowing that she had been wounded because she had been the first to spot the enemy and had held off the advanced scouts single-handedly until the battle was truly joined.

They had been incredibly out-numbered, and she had watched each of her teammates die – disintegrated by the enemy weapons before her eyes in a fine red mist. Sergeant Jennings had been the last, providing cover for her as she dialed. He had been even closer to the gate than she, but he never made it. She did – barely.

She had spent sixteen of the last eighteen days in the infirmary. The first three on full life support.

It was a miracle she was standing there at all. A miracle for which he would be eternally grateful…

But he knew it didn't feel like a miracle to her – it felt like a life sentence – without parole.

He lifted his hands, hesitatingly, but then rested them on her shoulders, his mouth near her left ear. "It IS a life sentence. We bear it for them."

At that she turned, put her arms through his, reaching up to grab fistfuls of his shirt. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. He wrapped her in his embrace and lowered his head to her neck.

A long time later, she took a deep breath and looked up at him. "Thank-you," she whispered, and turned partly away from him. "I needed someone who knew."

He grimaced again, and nodded. "It helps."

She took a few steps toward the kitchen, with him following her. "Teal'c knows… But it's different."

"Jaffa training," he replied simply.

She nodded, "Plus that revenge thing."

"No chance of that, this time," he gently reminded her, at the same time sharing in her regret.

"No," She replied softly, pausing briefly before she reached into the fridge and pulled out a couple beers. She held one out to him. He took it, opened it and had a long pull. She sipped at hers, still on medication.

He wandered around her kitchen aimlessly, angry at the nameless aliens who had killed those airmen and put her through this. He had no more ideas of what to do or say, so he wandered, touching random knick knacks, picking up a few and fiddling with them.

When he glanced back at her, he realized she was watching him with just the slightest hint of a smile on her lips: a good sign.

"You're gonna be okay." He stated softly, but with absolute surety.

Her smile faded, but she nodded slightly, more in acknowledgement of his certainty than in her own confidence.

It was enough.

For now.

oO0Oo  
END


End file.
